


Calor

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 08:34:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5450195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tuor’s sure Ulmo brought him Voronwë for a reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calor

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or The Unfinished Tales or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Even with Ulmo’s cloak draped tight around him, the night is cold, and the shallow cave isn’t protection enough. Tuor sits with his back to the rock while Voronwë hunts, only to return, as always, empty-handed. Perhaps Tuor will try, if he can reinvigorate his tired bones enough to move, or they’ll creep out together. It’s more likely they’ll sit and wait, then break down and share a wafer of Elven waybread, the crumbs dutifully savoured between both their hungry mouths. 

Voronwë offers something of a sad smile. He always shows some affection when he regains Tuor in his sights, but Tuor is a sorry sight now. He lifts one corner of the cape in offering. Voronwë wanders closer, his dark skin and darker hair falling under the shadow of the cave, until he’s right at Tuor’s side and shifting close. Tuor spreads the cloak across them again while Voronwë wraps tentative arms around Tuor’s broader shoulders, holding them tight together. 

With his lips coming to rest at Tuor’s ear, Voronwë murmurs, “I wish I had more heat to share.”

Tuor’s grateful for it and grins, though Voronwë’s head now rests against his and can’t see it. He’s larger than Voronwë, both taller and thicker, of equal strength in muscle but with more bulk to his, and he’s better armed—he feels _he’s_ the one that should look after his little sea-elf, so miraculously delivered into his care. He wraps his arms around Voronwë in return and finds, with no surprise, that Voronwë’s shivers are greater than his own. 

They sit like that for some time, bodies flush together, the thin mail across Tuor’s chest heating with the drape of Voronwë’s body and their fingers occasionally straying to one another’s hair, petting through just to keep their fingers from freezing. Voronwë’s starts braided—something Tuor wove in last night when sleep wouldn’t come—but now he combs it loose and spreads it about in an attempt to cover as much of Voronwë’s shoulders as possible. Voronwë tugs Tuor’s ponytail free likewise. Then, when the hunger in Tuor’s chest is undeniable and he’s about to ask for their stores, Voronwë pulls back enough to catch each other’s eyes again. 

Then he tilts his face, and he brushes his mouth across Tuor’s, whisper-light and strangely hesitant for how _close_ they’ve become. Tuor takes it like in a dream, then blinks in its wake, lost. He looks at Voronwë in confusion, one arm still tight around Voronwë’s waist and the other hand lost in Voronwë’s silken hair. 

“I... have been thinking,” Voronwë admits, slow and with his grey eyes half veiled, “and I think that Ulmo, in his might and wisdom, gifted me to you as more than just a guide. To take care of you and your needs on this hard journey...”

Tuor, though still shocked, can’t help a small snort, and at the cute way Voronwë tilts his head in question, Tuor answers, “I had just thought something similar, though the other way around.”

Voronwë smiles softly. His voice dips with it, quiet: “You are the one, I deem, with the great deeds to bring, and this trial is harder on you. The Edain are not as enduring as the Eldar. They need...” he pauses, glancing aside to search, the returns to Tuor’s eyes and murmurs, “peace and pleasure? To keep them going.”

Tuor’s had little of either of those qualities in his life, but he’s found remnants already on this trip, most brought with Voronwë’s company. He doesn’t want to argue. He’s still as Voronwë tilts forward again, brushing their lips together, their noses touching, breath warming each other’s chins. With his hands sliding down Tuor’s front, Voronwë asks, “May I provide that?”

Tuor tries and fails to suppress a shiver. He won’t deny finding Voronwë very beautiful, even in the pallor the winter brings, his frame frail but his sea-fire bright within. He moves with such grace and slips so easily against Tuor’s side, and his gentle voice is like a song, even when he isn’t joining with Tuor’s harp. Licking his lips once in thought, surprised delight and forced restraint, Tuor reasons, “That would please me indeed, but I would only do so if it would please you as well.”

Now Voronwë really smiles, so it touches and crinkles his eyes. “You are a great lord,” Voronwë muses. “And a great man. I knew this when your handsome figure first appeared before me, after such loneliness amongst only a few kin at sea.” He looks as though he has more to say, but he’s come too close, and Tuor opens his mouth, only for Voronwë to follow and press them back together. 

This kiss is quick, at first, and shallow, Tuor’s tongue tracing once across Voronwë’s lower lip and the bottom row of his teeth, then their mouths close and open again, and Tuor pushes right back inside, now leaning forward. The hand cradling the back of Voronwë’s head holds him in, tongues meeting in the middle, sliding around one another before Tuor gains easy dominance and fast access. Then he surges into Voronwë, kissing harder and harder, tasting more and more, until he’s growing hot under his armour and needs to feel _skin_. He relinquishes his hold on Voronwë only to fiddle with his own fastenings, and Voronwë hurries to help, their mouths busy in between. Every kiss they share breathes life into him. 

As soon as the armour’s gone, set aside within arm’s reach should beasts or orcs cry out, Tuor takes Voronwë by his lithe waist. Tuor kicks out the cloak and lays him down in it, Voronwë melting where he’s put. He lies prone across the floor and opens his arms, bidding Tuor into them. Tuor descends down, their mouths coming back together. Voronwë’s hands cup his face, thumbs brushing through his golden stubble. Tuor grinds their bodies once together to elicit a sharp hitch of breath. 

Already, Voronwë asks, “Will you not warm your cock in me?” The word sounds crude on his tongue, and it gives Tuor a pang of _want_. He nods and spares another kiss, then positions himself between Voronwë’s legs, spreading them around himself and up over his thighs. Voronwë’s clothes are loose, simple things, and his trousers are easy to tug down, his tunic already riding up his chest. Tuor wants to see it all, and he vows, once they find Turgon and hopefully some semblance of a real cot, that he’ll strip Voronwë properly and taste every last part of his eager elf. Voronwë, spread out for him in a halo of dark hair and the fabric of the Valar, is the most beautiful thing Tuor’s ever seen. He thanks Ulmo every day for this gift. He’ll have to now thank doubly so. 

It seems ages since Tuor last lay with another thrall, fumbling in the dark for meager satisfaction, but he knows what to do. He brings his fingers to Voronwë’s lips, and Voronwë opens obediently for him, sucks three digits inside and suckles at them dutifully, wetting them with a smooth, velvety tongue. It becomes difficult for Tuor to pull them away, but his trousers are tightening and he must. He frees more of Voronwë’s hips and pauses to see the hardened shaft that springs free to meet him. Voronwë’s body is hairless in large contrast to Tuor’s but no less appetizing. Tuor spends one awestruck moment eyeing the sight before him, then pushes Voronwë’s legs up and frees his hand, bringing it down to the cleft of Voronwë’s rear. The round cheeks spread easily open, wondrously soft around his calloused fingers, and he finds and rubs at the puckered hole that waits for him, tight but flexing wider.

“Do not worry about harming me,” Voronwë breathes, his hips tilting up into Tuor. “You will not. The Eldar are very supple creatures, and my desire for you will make me more accommodating.”

That brings Tuor relief; he knows from the outdoor showers of his early adulthood that he’s particularly well endowed, and he can’t imagine Voronwë’s fragile body being anything but tight. He’s still careful as he circles Voronwë’s brim before popping one blunt fingertip inside. It makes Voronwë gasp, eyes falling shut and face scrunching up, and he arches so beautifully. Tuor slips further inside, amazed at the dual pressure and ease at which he goes. He makes it to the knuckle before he slowly draws in and out, working Voronwë looser until he can add a second finger, though Voronwë breaks and mewls desperately, “ _Tuor_...”

Tuor doesn’t want to wait either. But he still fingers Voronwë properly, lovingly, stretching him with the thin spread of saliva, not enough, but all they have. If they had time to spare on lengthy, exquisite love making, Tuor would lick him clean first, but they’ll still need rest before tomorrow. Someday, perhaps. For now, Tuor pulls free when he can, then climbs back over Voronwë on all fours, glowing at the way Voronwë’s fair features instantly flicker into joy, arms reaching up to wrap around him. 

Tuor pulls loose his own drawstring and takes out his hardened shaft, spits once in his palm to coat it, then lines himself up. Voronwë breathes, “Please...”

And Tuor pushes inside, just that first bit but enough to make him want to _scream_. He grits his teeth hard to bear it, watching Voronwë open wide to gasp soundlessly, fingers digging into Tuor’s shoulders. Voronwë is _tight_ , just as Tuor knew he’d be, but no pain comes to his face, and Tuor pushes deeper. He moves forward in slow, rocking movements, horribly gradual, until he’s sunken inside and gasping; Voronwë is so very _hot_. His cushioned walls are like a fire. But best of all, he looks at Tuor with such adoration that Tuor’s chest constricts, and he dives down again to take Voronwë’s mouth. 

He grinds in at first, then works into greater sweeps, hips pulling out and shaft sliding through Voronwë’s perfect channel, then rushing back inside, while his tongue ravishes Voronwë’s mouth. Voronwë clings to him, thighs tight at his sides. Tuor threads his fingers back into Voronwë’s hair but mostly holds up his own weight, though their chests still touch, their bodies rutting together. He fills Voronwë again and again, until he finds the wherewithal to shove a hand between them, and he wraps his sweat and spit-slicked fingers around Voronwë’s cock. He pumps Voronwë in time with his thrusts, and Voronwë makes erotic keening noises into his mouth, each one stolen away.

The cold is all but forgotten. Tuor lasts as long as he can, enjoying each magnificent slide in and out of Voronwë’s gorgeous body, tasting as much of Voronwë as he can and breathing in the musky smell of his companion, far fairer than his own. Voronwë’s gasps are music to his ears. He delights in Voronwë’s warmth, company, beauty and loyalty, until he can’t think anymore but knows he’s growing close. He seals their lips together to contain his cries. 

His release is a warm flood, bringing sheer ecstasy to every last past of him. He slides forward through it, driving himself into Voronwë as though to pound them into one, and Voronwë holds him tight through it. He still works Voronwë’s shaft faithfully, and Voronwë follows before Tuor’s even finished, splashing into Tuor’s waiting hand. They continue to meld, just slowing. 

Eventually, Tuor grinds to a halt, holding over Voronwë and labouring for breath. Voronwë’s much the same. Tuor rests their foreheads together and spends one last, lingering moment delighting in all of Voronwë’s heat. Then he forces himself to pull free, to his own wince and Voronwë’s ragged gasp. Tuor kisses the side of his mouth for it. 

Tuor has nothing to wipe himself clean with—they’ll have to spare time for a bath when next they come to water. He tucks himself back into his trousers all the same and lovingly does the same for Voronwë, who lies spent beneath him. Then Tuor collapses at Voronwë’s side, and Voronwë instantly turns to cuddle into him. The glow is still thick across Tuor’s skin, but he knows it’ll fade, and so he lies as close as he can. He tosses the ends of the cloak back around them, wrapping them up in a safe cocoon. 

There are no words to express what Tuor feels. Voronwë seems to share that understanding. It’s enough, he thinks, to hold each other like this. He can sense that they still have a long journey ahead, but it no longer seems so hopeless as it did. 

Voronwë finally murmurs, “I will take first watch; you sleep.” Though his eyes are hazy and he looks just as tired. Tuor doesn’t have enough energy to argue. He closes his eyes and drifts swiftly off in Voronwë’s arms, warmed to know the love that he’ll wake up to.


End file.
